


Coffee

by HighVelocity



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighVelocity/pseuds/HighVelocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will visits Matt, once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee

Will visits Matt, once, when the man happens to be on leave and that same leave coincides with a trip he’s got to the UK, a workshop with the SAS which he thinks is going to be useful for some of his men. They bring over Epps and a couple - okay, more like a miniature pony herd of crazy as fuck Shetlands - greenhorns, the new NEST babies, and since they’ve already had a pretty good working relationship with the SAS even though the good Captain is no longer really with them(much to his regret), the Ranger jumps at the chance to get them a good dose of harden the fuck up. It’s no longer enough to be working in sandbox and urban conditions - they’re beginning prep for all kinds of terrain, ranging from the killer humidity of the tropics that Matt had so kindly expounded upon in great length and detail when they were together, to the colder climates of snow and ice. Those mechs really landed fucking everywhere. Lennox’s expression was deeply contemplative as he fought his way through London, soaking up the crisp, rounded vowels all round him, a soothing, mellifluous rhythm that was at once familiar and delightfully exotic. Maybe he’d see if he couldn’t somehow get permission to make them do the infamous Fan Dance, too. See if all-American good old boys couldn’t make a good attempt at cracking the Brit’s records...   
  
\---   
  
“Yes, it’s a little outdated, I’d say,” he comments, standing behind the counter of a tiny flat in the middle of some place or court or street in London that Lennox can’t recall the name of, for some reason. He knows there were a lot of weird fucking letter combinations that made no sense, and Matt had laughed and said it was Welsh, after he’d gotten over the surprise of seeing the Ranger on his doorstep. “And yes, it’s tough as fuck and part of Selection and really, Lennox, you’d probably kill half of the babies. I dare say you’d be better off running them in urban environments, since half the Cybertronians land in or around cities, anyway.”   
  
“Man, give us a little credit.” Will’s grin is a brilliant flash of neat teeth against tan skin, and he remembers the way Matt’s innocent choirboy expression used to break open into the most wonderful smile, bringing a new character to his face, a rich gleam to blue eyes. “If one of the smallest island nations ever can produce big strapping youths like you, I’m sure little ole USA can at least churn out something up to your impeccable Imperial standards. Unless you’re just scared we’re gonna smash your records...”   
  
Matt shakes his head, amused. He’s in jeans that ride hellishly low on his hips, his shirt is plain, and there’s at least a day’s worth of scruff over his chin and jaw. “I don’t think so. Here, let me put on coffee, then we can have a good jaw about it all. Want some grub to go with that, too?”   
  
“What, no tea?”   
  
“I’m all out. Had a couple mates here last week and they cleared out my larder, the fucking arseholes.”   
  
Will chuckles at that, settling on one of the two mismatched bar stools to watch Matt. The place is honestly a fucking box and he’s got no idea how Matt manages to fit more stuff in there than he can parse, let alone fit three men in the tiny space. Living room, kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom with the door carelessly open and the edge of Matt’s bag visible in one corner with a camelbak tossed on top of it. Combat boots range by the door with an umbrella, a couple of jackets, running shoes, a tiny little nook that holds a stack of mail and a can with small change, all the confusing pounds and pennies and pence and whatever else. Maybe those cupboards and stuff are like, Narnia or something, maybe the TARDIS from Dr Who. Bigger inside than on the outside.   
  
Or he’s been making good use of the Cybertronian’s magical subspace technology.   
  
“How long do you have off?”   
  
From out of a cupboard comes two mugs and coffee beans, the aroma palpable even from where he sits, arms crossed on the counter and leg jogging up and down only slightly restlessly. It’s weird seeing the dependable Captain in civvies, relaxed and casual and sinfully hot. Will’s gold wedding band is a hot weight on his finger when he remembers the shape of Matt’s hipbones under his teeth, the taste of skin on his tongue.   
  
“Three weeks. I’m in the middle of week two, actually.”   
  
“Good. Great. I’m here for four. Working with some of your boys, still letting the greenhorns settle in, mingle with the local populace.”   
  
“Be nice to them,” Matt chuckles, working the silver space age box that he calls a coffee maker, looking for all the world like a professional barista. Will fancies that the hair at his temples is gleaming slightly lighter than he remembers. “As for myself, it’s either somewhere in the Middle East, or Kazakhstan. If I’m lucky, though, I’ll run into you before we leave. Might have something for you lot, then.”   
  
Two steaming mugs of rich, gloriously scented black brew appear before them, and Matt claims the other stool. Will watches long fingers wrap around the blue and white mug, watches blue eyes half-close in appreciation of the aroma, watches the long line of his throat shift as he swallows tentatively, that cherry red mouth something beautiful.    
  
“That’d be good,” he says.   
  
\---   
  
One cup of coffee turns into hours of catching up, lunch at a nearby pub, a beer, two beers, Will finally tasting what Matt calls a proper pint, and eventually takeout curry back at his flat, turning to idle talk, speculation, and a half-formed quiet idea that Matt is suddenly so much more tired than the Ranger has ever remembered him being, even on three days no sleep and constant travel from point to point across the world. He remembers how hard they’d crashed after Egypt, flattened out in every spare inch of shade they could find, tired men sleeping, marginally less tired men working on repair, on watch, the brass going over reports, everyone with bags and shadows under their eyes. Civvies finally packed off back home, the media spin set into motion.    
  
“The problem is, Will, that it’s only too easy to end up as collateral damage in a very long, very old civil war. And after this last thing with the Fallen and all that shite, I’d make book that every government agency, every SpecOps and military unit is going to be shifted into high gear, or at least being prepped for it. They made their presence known, the shit’s starting to roll downhill, and this isn’t something that we can expect to hide any longer.” Matt’s eyes remain clear and direct, plastic fork buried in lamb rogan josh and briyani rice. “It’s going to be bloody. Not even the cleverest media shil is going to be able to pull the wool over the eyes of the world this time.”   
  
“Shit, I know. We’re gearing up for that, too.” Will shakes his head, unable to say anymore. They spend the next ten minutes in relative silence, watching BBC News on the television. Unrest in the Middle East. Will sneaks a look at Matt’s face, and watches his eyebrows quirk and the line of his mouth compress for a split second, before it smooths out and those same blue eyes land on him.   
  
“You know, while I’m glad you’re here, and it was very nice to see your all-American cowboy face again... why’d you come?”   
  
Will can only shrug through the little knot in his chest. He missed the Captain, missed the familiar presence at his back, the really fucking good shoulder massages he sometimes got, the friendly hook of a chin over his shoulder while he worked, and all the deliriously good hair pettings that always turned him to mush, but he’s not sure how best to articulate that. Instead, he settles for a simple “Just wanted to see you.”   
  
\---   
  
He’s not surprised at all when they end up in bed again, after a long circling dance of lips and teeth and tongues laving paths down necks, hands mapping paths over warm skin and the angles of bones, jeans and shirts shucked along the way, until they land on the single bed that nevertheless is somehow shockingly big for its size, Matt’s body arched up underneath him, dick hard against the shallow valley of Will’s hip, nestled there almost like it belonged. Will tastes the complex web of spices on Matt’s tongue, driving into his mouth, tracing the line of slightly crooked teeth and feeling the curve of his mouth form that endearing, slightly crooked grin, and it reminds of him of a nursery rhyme Anna had been singing one day, about crooked men and crooked cats and crooked sixpence on crooked roads with crooked turnstiles. And his world reels, just a little, something he puts down to the beer, and not the shifting equilibrium of his life after Matt, after the loss of the Captain’s presence from his six, just as they had hit that perfect working rhythm in NEST. He misses that, and somewhere in tasting the line of Matt’s clavicle he murmurs that into cream-and-rose skin, writing secrets into the line of abdominal muscles with the tip of his tongue. He sucks at that particular spot just underneath Matt’s navel that makes him jump, and moan a little brokenly, fingers spearing into his hair.   
  
Later, half-drowsing on the bed in a tangle of limbs, Matt pulls the covers up over their shoulders. And he tells Will, in brief, of a new task force set up to deal with the possibility of having to suppress potential internal strife, or terrorist attacks, whatever, threats that aim to use the resulting chaos from having an alien civil war brought to their shores to hide their activity. Matt mentions that they could use a few good Rangers to round out the numbers, though they’ve picked candidates from all over the place - Royal Marines, Australian SASR, NZSAS, USMC, Navy SEALS. It’s an impressive lineup.    
  
“It’s basically a precaution more than anything else,” he says. “A kind of just in case. Because we don’t know how it’s going to turn out.”   
  
“Always prepared,” Will murmurs. This explains the fatigue under Matt’s eyes, and to an extent, why they had been pulled back. Out of the NEST command trine, he was the most logical choice, and most easily spared.    
  
“Rest assured, we’ve got your six, Major.”   
  
“Roger that, Captain.”


End file.
